Fatigué
by Say-theLastWord
Summary: World War II is over, trailing destruction and grief. In the midst of joyous celebration, a tired France is left to make a decision. He will never be whole again.


His ears are ringing with the triumphant blast of trumpets and the merry shouts of his citizens. The parades are still going; they march through the city day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute. There is no shortage of laughter, no shortage of tears, and no shortage of rejoicing. The emotions swelling within his people are so intense, so strong that it nearly brings him to his knees, and he can feel the tears leaking from his eyes too.

World War II is over. The Allied Forces have won, and France is celebrating, but France is tired.

Sometimes it gets incredibly difficult for nations to separate their thoughts from the feelings of their people, especially if you have lived through the fall of the Roman Empire. France has been many things; he has been Gaul, he has been savage, and he has torn himself apart with the blood of martyrs in the meadows of France.

France is old, and never before has he felt that as strongly as he does now, for World War II is over, trailing in its wake an endless path of destruction and grief. The people of the world may be cheerful now, but the joy never replaces the empty hole left by the deaths of millions, the lives of men, women, and children squandered for the wasteful pursuits of one nation.

The Allies will gather soon. They are going to come together one last time and discuss the aftermath of the war, how to deal with the defeated countries, what reparations to demand, and decide how to pretend that everything is fine now when in reality, it never will be again.

France walks slowly, glorious blond head bent low under the weight of war. Though it may be over for the rest of the world, it is never truly over for nations. France knows that England is still haunted by the visage of his young protégé, and God knows that America still has the scars from his own Civil War. France is no stranger to these scars; no nation is.

His feet lead him back to the house where the rest of the Allies are currently gathered. It is his own house, and though it may shine brightly, decorated with the beautiful blues, reds, and whites from his country's flag, everyone within the walls of that sacred establishment is aware of the true self lurking within pristine white wall. After all, where the nations go, the prisoners of war must go too, especially ones as important as these.

France dreads this. He despises it. Why, in the name of God, has he been handed this unholy duty? Antonio has been clever; Antonio was never part of the important decisions though no one can truly measure the amount of damage done to any nation as a result of this war. Yet, at this moment, France wishes selfishly for Antonio's cheery smile, his glittering green eyes, his warm support.

France is celebrating, but France is already mourning.

He makes his way through the house, hallways leading on endlessly. Portraits, hanging on the wall, cracked frames, dead flowers… those will have to be replaced soon, but France could care less right now. He reaches his destination, and a young soldier snaps to attention, youthful face shining eagerly. He reminds France of America, of Alfred, and France smiles sadly.

"Sir, how can I assist you?" One of Alfred's then, no surprise. Everyone is praising America for his role in the war, how brave he was, how without him, all hope would have been lost. The young nation himself is more than glad to accept the praise, but France can see the ghosts of the dead hovering over the nation every day. He suspects that America can see the ones floating at his own shoulder.

"I need access to the prisoners." France does not waste time with words that have no meaning. He is not usually this blunt.

The soldier's face is hesitant, and the ramrod straight back shrinks slightly. "Sir, I'm not sure-"

"_Mon Dieu_, I am France!" he snaps back angrily. The sudden flare of his temper does not surprise him; he's known it was coming. "Let me through, foolish boy. I have no patience for your idiocy!" No, France is not usually this harsh.

The boy – he really is just a boy, and for a second, France feels guilty – pales and bows, hurriedly letting France through. France snorts as he brushes past him arrogantly. If he truly wanted to pass, there is no way a private could have stopped him.

The brightly lit halls of his home are no more. The lights here are broken, shattered from the force of fire raining from the skies. The floor is dirty, mud left behind from thousands of troops tramping through. The walls are smeared with red, the blood of so many staining them, defiling them. And the air, the air… it rings with the hollow screams and cries of his countrymen.

France is already wishing he did not come.

Still he walks, passing the lowly foot soldiers (cannon fodder, really), the ranking officers (nothing more than knights on an infinite chessboard), the truly despicable ones (they will burn in Hades), until he finally reaches two small rooms. They are fine and clean, albeit small, but those held inside cannot be treated too luxuriously.

France holds his breath and pushes the door on the left open. He is immediately greeted by bared teeth, a beastly growl, and the clanking of chains. Tsking disappointingly, France closes the door delicately and stands a good yard away from the bed where a shadowed figure is rattling his fetters fiercely. There is no chance of him getting free, and they both know that.

"_Allemange_," he sighs. "How are you today, Germany?"

The blond head snaps up from the bed, icy blue eyes glaring at France. If looks could kill, France has no doubt he'd be long dead. The normally slicked and neat hair has fallen into disarray over a grimy face, and the prominent bicep muscles have shrunken and withered with disuse. That does not stop the disgraced nation from spitting angry curse words at France.

France shakes his head sadly. "Germany, will you not come to your senses?" he implores softly. "Hitler is dead and gone; the war is over, and you have lost. You need not remain in that desolate wasteland of your head."

Germany stares at him for a few moments before throwing his head back against the iron headboard. There is a sickening crack, but neither nation pays it any mind. Then Germany begins to laugh. Insane laughter, very similar to the one from Germany's boss as he ordered the deaths of thousands of innocent Jews, pours from Germany's dry lips like a prayer to some pagan god that France knows not of. He stands, unmoving, stoic, as Germany laughs.

As soon as it begins, it stops. Then Germany is watching France wide, wide eyes that are vacant, empty of all reason. He strains slightly against the bonds before relaxing and slumping, boneless, back onto the bed. France waits.

"You dirty pig," Germany spits suddenly. Though his body is loose, there is no doubting the hatred and disgust in Germany's voice. "You are all fools! You will die! Why shelter those beasts, those Jews? We are superior, we will triumph. Hitler is not dead, he will never die, for _he_ had the perfect vision of the world. Germany will rise again, and we-"

His insane ramblings are cut off by the click of a closing door.

France sighs and runs a hand down his face. His cheekbones, usually angular and sharp, are now protruding angrily from a gaunt face, starved from his country's lack of nutrients. Blond stubble crawls wildly along sagging cheeks, uncared for. There was never any time for hygiene in war.

He hopes that the next visit will be easier even as his heart tells him it will only be harder. Francis opens the second door.

Prussia looks as well as ever, calmly perched on the windowsill and watching the celebrations pass from his vantage point. There is a manacle dangling from his bony wrist and attached to the wall. That is the only restraint on Prussia's pale body.

He doesn't turn to face France, but he senses his presence as France knew he would. There is no outward change in his posture as Prussia speaks. "They look happy," the ancient nation muses.

France sees red eyes reflected against the glassy sheen of the window and does not shudder. He has seen them for so many centuries already, and he knows he has nothing to fear from his longtime friend. France takes a step closer.

"_Mon ami_," he says softly. To be heard saying this means isolation from the other Allies, but France cannot care. At this moment, it is not Prussia, it is not the Axis powers. It is Gilbert, the one with wild laughter, the one with a yellow chick nestled in his messy silver hair, the one who France considers one of his closest friends. "Gilbert."

Gilbert is calm. "Francis." Because that is who they are to each other. Nations, surely they are, but before that, they are friends. "I heard you visiting _mein bruder. _How is he?"

"Not good, I'm afraid." Francis walks over and stands over Gilbert's shoulder and pretends to watch the festivities when his attention is really focused on the slender neck. So easy to break right now. "He has not shaken himself free of Hitler's hold."

"Bah," Gilbert spits. His expression narrows into anger, and the crimson eyes of the Kingdom of Prussia flash. "That bastard boss of his was too strong. He messed with Ludwig real bad, messed with all of us."

"Germany is certainly in a bad state," Francis says calmly. Germany is not Ludwig to him; he does not know this Ludwig. But he knows Gilbert, and that is who he will talk to. "You know that the Allies will decide your fate soon."

Gilbert barks with laughter. Insane, like his brother's, but different. "Why the discussions?" He sounds bitter. "I know what you're going to do. You'll take all of Ludwig and carve him up; you'll take his people and barricade them from him. You will starve him and beat him then kick him when he's down. And you will _all_ pray that he never gets up again. That's what you'll do to Ludwig."

"That is what your dear brother has done to the rest of the world." Francis speaks tensely. His already frayed nerves are being stretched past their limits, and he takes a deep breath to restrain his anger. "This is what they call a cycle, Gilbert. What Germany has done to others, we will do to him. It is only fair."

"What do you know of 'fair'?" Gilbert hisses. He turns to face Francis for the first time, and Francis does not flinch that the fury in his friend's eyes. "Were you there when Ludwig cried, cried for his people, because they were _his_ people being slaughtered. What about when his crazy boss made Ludwig kill them, made him light the fires with his own hands? How about when his mind was slowly being engulfed with madness? Were you standing there by his side through the entire thing and unable to do a _single thing about it?_"

Francis remains calm. "You were not there when your people bled for the sake of a madman. Nor where you there when England stumbled into a meeting after the Blitz, bloody and exhausted, crying and in pain? When America,_ neutral_ America, was forced to join the war to because of the games your brother wanted to play?"

Gilbert snorts. "America is hardly innocent. He nearly destroyed Japan."

"And Japan nearly destroyed him!" Francis finally snaps. He flings his hands into the air and paces the length of the tiny room, aggravated beyond words. "Why do you protect them? They are the destroyers of this world, the dangers!" he hisses angrily. "They will be punished, and nothing will stop that!"

"Not if I can help it." Gilbert is suddenly calm, and Francis feels a chill run down his spine.

"_Mon ami_, what are you saying?" he asks carefully. Francis is standing on thin ice now, and he is afraid of falling.

"Punish me."

"No."

"Why not?" Gilbert stands. He gestures wildly with is hands, and the chains clack ominously. "I played just as big a part in this war as anyone. I caused damages, hell, I went onto the battlefield and killed your men personally! Plenty of Brits and Americans fell by my bayonet."

"Haven't we all?" Francis asks wearily. Gilbert ignores him.

"Francis. Look at me." Francis does, and Gilbert is staring at him with a seriousness that makes his gut twist. Those lips should be twisted into a playful smirk, a mocking smirk, not turned downwards at the corners. This ghost is but a pale imitation of the Gilbert that Francis knows, and he loathes it.

"I'm old, Francis. I'm gonna die soon. Been fading a bit more every day. I can feel it." Francis is solemn at these words because he's known, always known, no matter how much he tried to deny it. "This age…" Gilbert points outside without looking, eyes still focused on Francis. "It isn't mine anymore. I belong with sabers and battlefields littered with the bodies of horses. I belong to palaces and kings, lords and tradition. This world isn't mine."

A tear slips from Francis's left eyelid, and he passes a hand over his eyes as he sinks to the ground. He knows. Gilbert has always been a wild thing, a spirit born of bloodshed and times of fighting, never ending wars. He was never meant for the flames of bombs or the dirt of trenches.

"Let me die, Francis."

The first sob breaks through and is quickly followed by a second. Before long, Francis is bawling on the floor, and he isn't even ashamed. "You would ask this of me, _Prusse?_ You are truly a cruel man."

Gilbert only chuckles sadly. "I've never been a man. Neither have you, Fancy-pants."

Francis can't stop crying, and he doesn't want to. Maybe if he passes out, this will be a dream. The war won't have happened; he, Antonio, and Gilbert will be eating Spanish grown tomatoes on a sunny French beach and drinking German beer. And laughing. They will all be laughing.

Francis is crying, and he knows that Gilbert is too.

"You cannot do this to me, _frère_, you cannot." Truer words have never left Francis' mouth. They are brothers, and that will not change no matter how many wars are declared. "What will _Espagne_ say to me? Antonio will hate me."

"No, he won't." Gilbert's raspy voice sounds raw, and Francis doesn't- refuses to acknowledge why. "He'll forgive you. 'toni's never been good at hating or holding grudges. Not like you or me."

"He's always been the better third," Francis agrees, and he still can't stop crying, _merde_, why can't he stop? "Your beloved brother will hate me, and he will hate you. You will never stop haunting him, and he will never forgive me."

"That's a lie." They are both so, so tired, and France is so heartsick and sore. "Ludwig will forget me; everyone does. He's strong. Give it a few decades. I'll only be a ghost at his window, some shade that raised him. Ludwig's a strong nation now. He doesn't need me anymore." Francis wants him to shut up, _mon Dieu,_ Gilbert has always been such a loudmouth. "He'll forgive you. There's nothing else for him to do. Nations don't hate. It hurts too much."

Francis chuckles weakly and presses his palm to the left side of his chest. "You're hurting me right now, _mon ami_."

"Hey, hey, Francis, don't get all mushy on me now." Gilbert is joking; he knows that Francis has already made up his mind. "You were always a crybaby, you and your lame French romances."

"It is the power of _amour_!" Francis protests. "Nothing can stop that!"

He picks himself up off the floor and dusts off his jacket. Francis wants to avoid looking at Gilbert, but he can't. They look at each other, brothers in arms, and Francis realizes that even if everyone else can forgive him, he will never forgive himself.

He turns to leave.

"Hey, Francis." Gilbert's voice stops him, and he freezes with one hand on the rusty doorknob. "For the record… I never wanted it to come to this."

Francis bows his head. "Neither did I, _Prusse_, neither did I." And with those words, he is gone.

A few weeks later, Prussia and Germany are dragged out in front of the Allies to face their judgment. France stands in stony silence, ignoring America's glares. The young nation wasn't able to understand how Francis could be willing to trade his friend like that; America is all about freedom and loyalty after all. England and China had understood; he could tell from their sympathetic gazes. Russia had just chuckles and clapped his hands together, gleefully exclaiming, "It is good; the younger will feel his brother's pain forever, _da?_" and no one had bothered to argue.

Germany is better. Hitler's evil influence has faded, and his blue eyes are tired, but he is Germany again. The proud nation stands with bowed head to await what he thinks is his inevitable punishment.

Only two people (for they are people, in the end) know differently.

After a long moment of silence, England finally steps forward. He's been asked to do the honors because America can't bear to, China has no wish to participate, and Russia would mangle the entire thing.

No one even asks France is he is interested.

"Germany, for the heinous crimes you and your country committed, these are the reparations demanded from you. You will be obliged to pay war reparations to the Allied governments along with your allied nations. The Allies will begin the dismantling of the remains your industries, all intellectual property such as patents, copyrights, and trademarks will be handed over…" It is bad, but not as bad as it could be.

Germany looks relieved at the relatively light sentence, and France wants to sigh at his naiveté. He does not know what is coming.

England finishes reciting the long list and pauses, glancing to where Prussia stands. The silver nation has not moved this entire time, and France refuses to look at him.

"… finally, the territories of Germany will be annexed. Specifically, the land of Prussia will be divided between Poland and the Soviet Union-"

He is cut off by Germany's bewildered cry. "What are you doing?" he screams. Germany's voice is breaking along every syllable, vocal chords shouted hoarse days ago. That doesn't stop him now. "You can't- _bruder!_ Say something!"

When it becomes clear that Prussia refuses to respond, Germany turns tortured eyes to France instead. "I thought you were his friend," he hisses. Poison leaks from between his teeth, and France can feel the full fury of the Germans unleashed upon him at this moment. "You _hurensohn_, son of a bitch-"

Russia interjects, smiling playfully and casually wielding that intimidating pipe of his. It is splattered with old blood, and France knows that Russia isn't afraid of adding more. "It is right, _da?_" he questions innocently. "You do not need Prussia. This way you can remain strong and keep living. But in exchange," he continues merrily, seemingly unaware of Germany's horrified expression and France's tightly pressed lips. "You are killed every day, _da?_ Your brother will be gone, and you will remember that it is _your_ fault." He spreads his massive arms gleefully. "We are all satisfied too!"

England and China keep their poker faces strong. France wants to throw up. England walks over and gently steers Germany to a small wooden table with a piece of paper lying innocuously on its smooth surface.

"It's almost over, lad," England murmurs. "Stay strong a bit longer." No one hears but France and Germany.

Germany slowly picks up the pen and stares at it, like he doesn't know what to do with it. There is a black line, straight and perfect, just waiting to be used. There is a treaty just waiting to be signed.

Germany turns back to Prussia again. "_Bruder_, please, I beg you…" He is pleading now, grief raw in his voice. "Don't make me do this, _mein Gott,_ please have mercy!" Germany has been stripped of all his power and strength, leaving only a scared boy who made mistakes and is about to lose his older brother.

France hardens his heart. They are nations, not boys. A slap to the wrist is not enough, and this mistake was not nearly small enough.

A familiar voice breaks the silence. "Do it, Ludwig," Prussia commands, white teeth glistening as he smiles. Germany stares at him before rushing to embrace his older brother, folding him into a tight hug. Prussia raises manacles hands to pat Ludwig's broad back comfortingly, crimson eyes closed and lips creased in an expression of peace and contentment.

They stand like this several moments. America sneakily removes his glasses and swipes at his eyes roughly. England shifts from foot to foot. China stands impassively. Russia smiles. And France dies.

Finally, Gilbert steps away. Francis wants him to keep holding Ludwig, because if Gilbert holds his younger brother, then that damned treaty can't be signed. Gilbert mutters something inaudible into Ludwig's ear, and the new tears spring to the blond's eyes, but he nods.

Ludwig turns and picks up the pen. Francis watches as the black bleeds through the paper and stains the white surface with sin. It is a beautiful signature.

Once it is done, Ludwig turns. England turns. America turns. China turns. Russia turns.

Francis turns.

They all watch. It would be shameful and mocking to do otherwise, and no one would deny Gilbert that last favor.

People have called Gilbert many things. Loud, annoying, bratty, alcoholic, egoistic, reckless, idiotic, foolish-

-caring, responsible, chivalrous, strong, reliable, mighty, beloved, brother-

-_friend._

_Goodbye, mon ami_, Francis thinks. _I will never forgive you._

The great Kingdom of Prussia withers away and is gone.

And there is nothing left for Francis but a hollow victory, the muffled sobs of a broken German boy, the empty footsteps of nations retreating the room, and the suffocating regret that swallows him whole.

France is celebrating, and France is tired.


End file.
